


The Taste of Gunpowder

by plumscent



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anxiety, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Levi-centric (Shingeki no Kyojin), M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-07-20 19:20:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16143827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumscent/pseuds/plumscent
Summary: Levi likes to pretend it’s the lack of empathy and humbleness of city folk that made him a cynic. Truthfully, he'd been fucked up long before that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is different. I've been going through some shitty things and I refuse to go back to smoking, so this is how I'm coping instead. I'm hoping I'm not biting off more than I can chew lol
> 
> This is dark, but so far not too graphic. I wasn't sure about the warning tags, so if something triggers you, please let me know. Narrative is not linear, so I hope it's not too confusing.
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated!

 

On good days, Levi makes himself a proper breakfast in the morning and waters the plant Hanji gave him for no apparent reason other than to annoy him. He refuses to believe maintaining a bunch of green leaves help teach him _empathy_ or whatever.

On bad days, he opens the door to the small balcony right by his bed and smokes three cigarettes before stepping out of the bedroom. He doesn’t put on his glasses until he’s unlocking the door to leave, and even then, his gaze doesn’t linger on anything, wandering aimlessly instead. The ink on his arms looks shapeless; black, foggy lines he can’t decipher, no matter how much he squints.

_Sink or swim, Levi._

_\--_

No one knows the Heart of Maria better than Levi. It isn’t really the best thing to brag about, knowing the ins and outs of the biggest slum in the city, but it does have its perks. Knowing how it worked meant knowing how to survive, and even amongst the ones who were born and raised there, just like Levi, not many could say that they did. Even after leaving, part of him was always there; it was as easy as closing his eyes, and soon he was back at the shabby house he grew up in, dank and mouldy and barely sheltering him from the constant noise from outside.

He goes back to the dark, piss-smelling streets two, sometimes three times a week. Anybody he’s ever known, except Hanji, still lives there. Stealing and running from the cops, and dealing baggies for the bored trust-fund babies in the city. Starving, too, and dying from common illnesses because they can barely afford the bus fare to a doctor.

Outsiders think everyone in a slum is the same; a lump of ugly, brainless degenerates wasting tax money that could be going to a new football stadium or fancy tablets for kindergartners who can barely walk by themselves. It couldn’t be farther from the truth, though Levi never had the patience to argue. He likes to pretend it’s only the lack of empathy and humbleness of city folk that made him a cynic.

In the slum, the good ones take on stray dogs and feed them before eating anything themselves, sharing a tattered blanket and humming made-up songs to distract them from the storms. The bad ones kick the dogs while shouting nonsense, drunk, and watch them become skinnier and skinnier every day as they step outside, until one day it just looks like the dog is sleeping by the front door. Immobile. Too weak to even breathe anymore.

 

\--

 

He meets Eren for the first time in one of the weekend parties, the old stereo booming loud beats still stored in CDs.

Levi had never been a fan of the parties, even when he still lived in Maria, but he’d been having a shit week and longed for something more familiar. Besides, Mike had been asking for a few favours, and that would surely grant him a couple of free beers.

He nods his way through the crowd, feeling warm but unwilling to take off his jacket. He feels faintly ridiculous, being so vain, but the jacket is fucking _leather_ , a regift Hanji had refused to wear on behalf of voiceless cows everywhere. Levi had no such compunctions.

He finds Moblit and Eld playing pool in the back, and joins them quietly for a while. Mike is, and they quote, “doing business”, and Levi has no interest in idle chat with junkies. The clientele at these parties is usually too desperate to form a coherent sentence, and most likely to drop to their knees if they know you have anything worth a good buzz.

“How’s Petra?” he asks Eld after a particularly unsuccessful stroke, taking a sip of his cheap beer. It’s all he’s ever had, really, yet he knows there’s gotta be something better than this shit. He drinks it anyway.

“Great. Huge as a whale. I’m sure she would appreciate you coming by sometime,” Eld replies with a smile.

Levi nods in response.

In truth, he worries. Petra had been a good friend, especially when it came to helping with his mother, and now that she was about to pop a kid of her own, he really should be there for her more. He knows she isn’t working anymore, and that means Eld is working twice as hard – _dealing_ twice as hard, whatever that meant. It's none of his business, really, but that doesn't seem like the best way to bring another child into this fucked up world. But Mike pays better than any honest job Eld, another high school dropout, could ever get.

He takes another sip of his beer, and spots Mike talking to a stranger in dark jeans and a faded green t-shirt. Not a regular, from what he can tell. The guy is talking animatedly to him, but when Mike spots Levi, he cuts the guy off apologetically and walks over.

“Haven’t seen your ugly mug in a while,” he says by way of a greeting, and if it were anyone else, Levi would probably punch them in the fucking face. Mike knows this very well, too, and his bright grin is visible even in the dark lightning.

“Hilarious,” Levi retorts.

Mike updates him on whatever is new on Maria these days. Throughout the whole conversation, he feels a gaze that could burn a hole through his neck, and he can also feel his own frown intensifying in return. When he turns around, he finds that the guy Mike had ditched is unapologetically checking him out. His eyes go from Levi’s face to his hand holding the beer bottle, lingering on the _S W I M_ on his knuckles, and moving then to his ass. _Great._

Levi gives him a very unimpressed stare.

When Moblit declares victory, Mike joins the next game while Levi steps aside, ready for a smoke. He’s dumping his empty bottle in a trash can when someone touches his arm. He draws back immediately, a scowl on his face and a fist already forming on his right hand, and as he turns to look at whoever idiot that touched him, he’s met with dark green eyes and a broad smile. The stare-y guy.

“Hey. Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says. His voice sounds warmer than Levi would’ve guessed. “I just wanted to say hi. My name’s Eren, I’m a friend of Mike’s, too. Can I get you another beer?”

Levi can’t hold a snort at that; it’s terrible small talk.

“I’m not interested in junkies,” he replies, moving closer to the door and patting his pockets for his cigarettes.

“I’m not a junkie!” Eren shouts over the noise, bumping into several people as he tries to keep up. He sprints until he’s blocking Levi’s way, and Levi can’t help but appreciate that Eren didn’t try to stop him by grabbing his arm again. “Mike helps me in the ring,” he explains, moving next to Levi as both walk outside.

“The ring,” Levi repeats, putting a new stick between his lips and lightening it. The guy is clearly built, but Levi has trouble envisioning that baby face and long hair on the boxing fights that happened in the abandoned gymnasium. “You put that hair on a pretty ponytail when people beat you up?” he mocks, exhaling the smoke. That should do it, he thinks.

But the guy doesn’t storm out, or gets mad or even frown. Instead, he looks owlishly confused for a second, before a grin splits his face and he laughs loudly, one hand running through said hair unconsciously.

“Seriously, let me get you another drink.”

Levi lets out a long breath, tapping the ashes of his cigarette. He’d never cared much for relationships – fleeting or otherwise. One-offs never really brought him satisfaction, and he’d never had the time for something more proper. He also didn’t feel like starting it now.

“No.”

“Why not?” Eren asks, and Levi can feel his patience dissipate along with the cigarette smoke. Most people would’ve quit by now.

“You have no idea who I am, do you?” Levi asks, almost amused. As he tilts his head up, taking another drag, Eren frowns, looking puzzled.

“What, you some kind of celebrity around here?” Eren retorts, full of sarcasm.

Levi smirks then, puts the stick between his lips and offers a hand. “I’m Levi.”

He really is expressive, Levi thinks, as surprise paints Eren’s face. “Levi,” he repeats dumbly.

Levi actually chuckles at that, before throwing out his stub and turning around, hands in his pockets. “Nice meeting you, Boxer Eren.”

Eren doesn’t follow him back in.

 

\--

 

Everyone knows about Levi.

In these streets, everyone is a survivor, and that always seemed like a feat in itself. But some have a little more of a reputation than others, even if unwillingly. Levi is one of them. He used to beat up the thugs who stole from the sick families and help petty criminals hide from police stakeouts. But that’s not why they know him.

Levi is the one who killed his uncle after said trash was caught trying to get cosy with his own fucking sister. He had been fourteen, and respectful of his mother’s wishes to stay away from guns. The blood from the stabbing wounds had stained his skin for days.

He had been sloppy with the body, too scared to look up at his sobbing mother to ask _how long_. She holds his hand that night for hours, both silent and wishing for sleep to claim them, though it never did. Shortly after sunrise, they hear the police car and the banging on the doors, and his mother trembles as he puts on his shoes and opens the door. He has no regrets, and doesn’t really care enough to put up a fight. _Sink or swim, Levi_. How ironic, he thinks.

Outside, their street is filled with bystanders, two cops shouting over cries and whispers as they walk a handcuffed Ymir to the car. Levi feels the air leave his lungs, frozen, and when he finally manages to shout a broken _wait!_ , Ymir catches his gaze and nods just once, head soon disappearing through the car door and the tinted windows.

Two doors down, Historia is crying silently, and when he approaches her slowly she throws her arms around him. She sobs more forcefully as he awkwardly holds her, though his penetrating gaze is enough to scare away the lingering heads looking for any worthy gossip.

Once she quiets down, she invites him for tea. He looks back at his house and his mother is by the door, holding the frail wood with such force he’s afraid it might snap from the hinges. She gives him a loaded gaze, only retreating once Historia is already pulling him by his hand.

Kuchel hadn’t been the first.

She’s very matter-of-fact about it, telling him that she’d managed to keep quiet from her girlfriend for a few weeks, and had told Ymir just the night before. _You did us a favour, really_ , she explains with a half-smile, stirring her tea despite having no sugar or milk, and never really bringing the chipped cup to her lips. Says Ymir would’ve killed him anyway, and jail was a small price to pay for him to be able to take care of his mother.

 

\--

 

Levi had quit school at sixteen, when his mother had gotten too sick to keep baking. _Best melon buns in the whole world!_ , people used to say, despite never having tasted another. Even in hardship, his mother had always tried to keep a spark from their heritage alive, humming old songs she didn’t know the lyrics to or scraping the kitchen for any ingredient that would make a good substitute for the imported spices they would never be able to afford. The melon buns had been Levi’s favourite as a child, and Kuchel would always bake extras for those on the streets who could afford it for a few coins. She bakes until she can’t hold herself standing anymore, and it’s a fast decline after that.

He does odd jobs for almost a year. When his mother passes, he starts full-time at a construction site, carrying bags of sand and hammering walls for ten hours every day. A little more, when he got lucky and was given overtime. The job is unsafe and the pay mediocre, but it keeps him away from the house and the memories. He comes home with an aching back and bloody fingers, and he’s too tired to care about anything but sleep.

Before he knows it, four years have gone by. Levi feels like a movie character, frozen in time.

One day, he’s sent home early because of an injury. He grumbles to himself the entire way home, because it’s only a sprained wrist and he needs the money, but his boss had not been persuaded. _I don’t need you suing me for compensation, kid, come back when you’re healed._

It’s only when he’s steps away from his door that he halts, frowning. The sun is still bright out, and Levi doesn’t really care for sleeping through the rest of the afternoon. But he can’t be in there, with the shadows of his mother and the empty silence they bring; they give him headaches. He has nothing else to do; people like him don’t really have time for hobbies, usually. He sighs, turning around, and starts walking aimlessly through the streets, not even bothering to change from his work clothes. That alone should scare him; Levi had been working all morning before fucking up his wrist, his shirt sporting several holes and his pants specked with dirt. His arms had a few cuts and bruises, and he was sure his hair was a tangled mess by now.

And yet. Home could wait a few more hours.

He lasts a few more minutes before patting his pockets, and letting out an annoyed groan when realizing he ran out of cigarettes. It’s a few blocks before he finds a tiny corner store, a mangy dog sitting at the entrance. He buys the cheapest packet and a small bread roll, sitting on the curb before tossing the bread to the dog, who gives him a low bark before turning his attention to the unexpected meal.

He watches the dog as he takes a drag slowly. The street was quiet, though he could hear excited voices nearby. Kids, most likely playing ball in the empty lot a block away. He remembers playing a lot, when he was a kid, though he never owned a ball himself. Farlan always had one though, red and blue and heavier than it should be for children to play with, but they never cared. For a brief second, Levi lets himself wonder where Farlan would be now, if he hadn’t overdosed. Where Isabel is.

There’s a weird sound to his right.

He turns, cigarette between his lips, and is faced with the biggest camera he’s ever seen. It’s clearly a professional one, and while the person holding it is wearing simple, nondescript clothing, the camera sticks out like a sore thumb, and Levi would bet both his legs that it is worth more than everything anyone in the slum has ever owned. He frowns.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Taking your photograph,” the stranger says, as if it were something usual. Levi feels forced to wonder how in the hell this person managed to walk around with that kind of equipment and attitude without getting robbed.

“And why the fuck would you do that?” he retorts, annoyed.

“Because I’m a photographer,” is the reply he gets, and as the camera is lowered the face greeting him is smiling proudly. “I’m working on a project for the city council contest. _Faces of Sina_ , is what they’re calling it. My name is Hanji, by the way, and I mostly use they pronouns. I was about to leave, actually, but when I saw you I couldn’t miss the chance. Very good shot, if I can say so. Oh, is your wrist okay?”

Levi’s frown intensifies, because seriously, who the fuck is this person? Half of their words go right over his head, but something catches his attention. He snorts.

“What makes you think you can win, taking pictures of this place? No one wants to see us,” he says, unusually bitter. As much as he hated it, he never resented being born here. It would do him no good, anyway.

“Because I think you should be seen,” is the even more unusual reply. Levi looks at them again, almost appraisingly. He lifts his packet of smokes, wordless _. You’re alright_.

Hanji smiles and sits next to him, ignoring the cigarettes. They ask about his life, his job, and everything in between, occasionally apologizing when Levi’s frown gets too deep. They aren’t curious about Levi per se, he thinks, but rather life in the slum, and so Levi indulges them. He’s got nothing to lose and many hours to spare, anyway.

He talks about the hunger and the stress, the crimes and the children left as orphans. He also talks about their shabby community centre, the weekend parties and the fierce loyalty between the people in their community.

He tells them he killed a guy, once.

Hanji doesn’t seem particularly fazed, though he has a feeling they wouldn’t let it show if it did. Levi isn’t sure why he says anything at all. Maybe because he can. Maybe because, even with no regrets, the notion that he ended a human life sometimes is too much to bare.

They talk about more trivial things, after, and it’s at least another hour before Hanji gets up to leave. They reach into a backpack pocket and hand him a flyer, telling him “that’s the exhibition date, the five best photographers will have their work in this gallery and the winner will be chosen then.” There seems to really be no doubt in their mind that they will win, and Levi snorts to himself, wishing he could steal just a little bit of that self-confidence. Maybe if he had something actually worth fighting for.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit on the shorter side, I'm afraid.
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated <3

He goes to the exhibition.

He’s wildly underdressed, even in his best clothes, but finds it hard to care when people turn their noses at him. At least he’s wearing some goddamn clothes, isn’t he? These people would certainly be more scandalized if he’d walked in butt naked.

There are servers holding trays filled with miniscule portions of food, and bubbly drinks that probably have more sugar than alcohol in them. Levi steers away from them and walks around instead, finding the first exhibit, _Summer in Sina_. The title is not terribly creative, he thinks, but quite descriptive of the landmarks and colourful sceneries he sees in the photographs. They’re beautiful, and he recognizes a few places, albeit they never looked as interesting through his own eyes. Despite never indulging in fantasies, Levi finds himself wishing he could do that; find beauty in the ordinary.

The second exhibit is literally a bunch of pictures of fancy dogs around the city, and Levi doesn’t even bother looking for a name. 

The third one begins with a picture of Mike and Moblit in front of Mike’s run down house, the paint peeling from the outer walls and the broken window covered with black plastic. Both men seem relaxed as they talk to each other despite the obvious fact that Mike has a gun in his hand, and to Levi, it is a perfect depiction of their lives. Always cautious, always ready to fight for what little they had. Of course, Mike had more to lose than most. Levi figured he’d be living a lot more comfortably had he agreed to work for the dealer, but he’d seen addiction for the disease that it was, and could never fathom the idea of perpetuating the poisonous habit. Not after Farlan.

The next photograph shows the little old lady that sells hand-sewn socks by the church, and the one to its right illustrates what seem to be a very exciting football match, judging by the children’s faces. Levi can’t help a tiny smile; he can still remember with clarity those early years, when his mother did everything she could to encourage him to just be a kid, and to keep him sheltered from the worst of it. Not a lot of parents did that.

The third photograph is of himself.

The profile shot is carefully crafted, as Levi seems to be deep in thought while looking at the horizon or some other poetic bullshit when really, he’d just been watching a dog gobble down some old bread. Still, he thinks there’s something authentic about it. In black and white, the ink on his arms seem even more prominent, as do the bruises. His clothes are unmistakably dirty, and the cigarette stub he holds between his fingers stain them grey with ashes.

He looks as lost as he’s ever felt, despite never realizing it.

He goes through the rest of the photographs without really paying attention. Right in the middle, there’s a label that reads _The Taste of Gunpowder, by Hanji Zoe_ , followed by a small text.

_Paradis’ oldest slum, the Heart of Maria is lively in a way most people don’t imagine. There are children running on the streets, and the elderly who sit on worn plastic chairs outside their homes always bid you_ good day _with a smile. And yet, the first thing you notice is the palpable tension, the hardly concealed weapons, the gazes that are a mix of fear and starvation. Crime is its biggest enterprise; weapons, its best product. While I walked down its streets, I swear could almost taste it._

Levi reads it one, two, three times. He doesn’t know how he feels about it, about having his world summarized this way. It’s not judgmental, nor really inaccurate; but to him, it almost reads as hopeless.

Shaking his head to lift the fog that suddenly crept into his mind, Levi figures it’s time to leave, but he still can’t help having one last look at his own portrait. It really is a nice shot, but his stomach hasn’t stopped twisting since he first saw it. He doesn’t look like himself, he decides.

“What do you think?” a voice asks next to him. Hanji, of course, and he’s startled to realise how close they got without him noticing. They look like they belong here much more than he does, wearing a crisp black suit and weird but undoubtedly fancy shoes.

“I think you never really asked my permission for this,” he says, not caring about his very unsubtle way of ignoring the question.

Hanji grins and turns back to look at the photograph. “I’m really glad you came. Wasn’t sure you would, and I’m usually good at these things. I gave a flyer to a couple other people in Maria, but they didn’t show. They said they wouldn’t, though; not fans of the city. Anyway, how’s the wrist?”

Levi snorts. “Back to hammering walls until my head is ringing.”

“Not glad to be back at work?”

“Not especially. Can’t imagine destroying your body for less than minimum wage being something that would thrill many people.”

Hanji simply hums in agreement. They stay quiet for a minute, watching as other people look at the photographs and talk to each other in excited tones. Levi is about to say his goodbye when they speak again.

“So come work for me,” they say – not ask –, looking at him expectantly.

“Work for you?” He’s sure his facial expression is definitely not pretty nor elegant, but then again scepticism seems to be a recurring theme whenever Hanji is around.

“Yeah. I need a secretary. My business is picking up, but I’m really bad at schedules and bookkeeping and all that annoying administrative stuff. I really only know how to take good photos.”

“And what makes you think I’m any different?” Levi asks, carefully trying not to laugh at their face. This was a really poorly done prank.

“You said you took care of finances at home, didn’t you? Help your mom with the baking sales? This is a little bit more work, of course, but not too different.” Their tone is so matter-of-fact Levi has to wonder if they actually are crazy, or just really naïve.

“I don’t need your charity job,” he snaps.

They laugh. “It’s hardly charity if you actually work. Which, you know, you will be asked to do.”

Levi grits his teeth. “I don’t understand what you want here,” he says, and he really doesn’t. Surely Hanji can find someone more qualified, someone without tattoos on their necks or their hands that won’t scare others away with their crass vocabulary. Someone who had at least a high school degree.

Hanji sighs, putting their hands in their pockets. “I didn’t peg you to be a self-proclaimed underdog, Levi.” They give him a small smile. “Look, I need help, _desperately_ , and I really think you would be good at it. It’s better pay and better working hours than you have now, and zero risk of injuries or losing limbs.” They pause. “Well, five percent risk. You don’t need to give me an answer now, just think it over, okay?”

Before he can say anything else, they slip him a business card and turn around, quickly whisking away a glass from a passing server and disappearing through the crowd. He feels a headache coming, and spends the whole bus ride home turning the card over and over in his hands.

_Sink or swim, Levi._

 

 

 

One week later, Levi takes the job. On the same call, he finds out Hanji won the city contest, and donated their prize to Maria’s community centre.

 

\--

 

Working for Hanji makes Levi want to pull his hair out in frustration most of the time, if only because he’d never had to deal with someone so unpredictable, but he can’t deny that he also enjoys it. It feels like he’s finally learning to navigate the world, like things are moving forward instead of leaving him stuck in a limbo.

He wonders how long the feeling will last.

When he first starts, Hanji has to help him use a computer. Levi had always been a fast learner, though, if at least for survival’s sake, and in a matter of a week he starts to see why his boss desperately needed someone to make sense of the mess of spreadsheets and Google Calendar appointments in front of him. He answers phone calls while being as polite as he can possibly be, even when the post-it note he actually leaves for Hanji reads _call asshole from nature shoot._

He even tags along to a photoshoot once, some weird concept of a guy playing a piano in an abandoned warehouse. Except that the idiots responsible for hair and make-up spend the entire time trying to take pictures of Levi, being less than subtle about it, and he never goes to another shoot again.

A year later, Levi rents an apartment in the city. It’s tiny and hardly in the most prestigious neighbourhood, but it’s the first space he can actually call entirely his own. He scrubs it from top to bottom twice before moving in.

It’s bittersweet, leaving Maria. The place is all he’s ever known, and despite hating the dirt and the stench and the pain he saw in some gazes every day, he knew he would miss it. He was _someone_ in there; but in the city, he was a nothing but a faceless stranger with his boss as his emergency number.

He gets a prescription for glasses and starts buying books from second-hand bookshops. He does actual grocery shopping, and spends his Sundays walking around the city park. Levi adapts surprisingly easy, and tries not to think about it too much; when he does, he feels guilty.

 

\--

 

He’s walking home one day when he sees the police chasing a couple of kids next to a closed train station, clearly new to selling drugs in the open. He shouldn’t care, really, but against his better judgment he picks up his battered cell phone and calls Mike. His friend assures him it wasn’t one of them, but he’ll keep an eye out, anyway.

“Eren’s been asking about you since last week,” Mike says by way of changing the topic. They both knew they shouldn’t discuss business much, unless Levi wanted in.

“Who?” He asks, confused.

“Hm, I believe you said something about him fighting in a ponytail?” Mike says with amusement. Ah, the guy from the party.

Levi snorts. “Who the hell is he, anyway?”

The answer isn’t really what he expected.

 

 

He’s a model. The guy is a goddamn _model_.

But he also has anger issues, according to Mike, and that’s why he goes to the fights every week, beating his opponents bloody before they can even think of touching his money-making face. He’s actually good enough for Mike to start taking bets on him; apparently, Eren has never lost a fight in the ring.

“You should come see him someday, I’m sure he would like that. It would get him off my back, at least,” Mike teases.

Levi remembers when he used to want to be _in_ the fights. He’d gone and watched for weeks, observing the fighters and training in secret. He’d won his first and only fight, but not without getting a black eye in return, and his mother had been heartbroken by the sight.

It made him feel ashamed to the point that he almost didn’t acknowledge it. Seeing this woman that under any other circumstances would’ve screamed at him instead of begging with a sad, almost grief-stricken stare because her lungs were so fragile by then she could barely talk above a whisper, it hadn’t been a hard decision. He promised her not to go again, and he never did.

 


End file.
